


The Mouth of My Sister is a Rosebud

by Niki



Series: My Lady of Grace [2]
Category: The Mummy Series
Genre: Dreams, F/M, Reincarnation, Trope Bingo Round 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-20
Updated: 2014-03-20
Packaged: 2018-01-16 09:28:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1342282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niki/pseuds/Niki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rick dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mouth of My Sister is a Rosebud

**Author's Note:**

> Trope Bingo square: Reincarnation

“If I were to call you Heru-deshret...” Rick says, feeling stupid even as he opens his mouth, but Ardeth turns to look at him and smiles.

“Then I would call you Khamudi, and embrace you as my brother.”

“Well, shit.”

\- - -

That night, as they prepare for bed, Rick clears his throat and Evie turns to look at him. 

“Yes? What is it?”

“You said... you dreamt of the time you were a... a princess in Egypt.”

“Many times now,” she says, frowning a little.

“You didn't tell me it happened again.”

“You were... uncomfortable with the concept.”

“You almost sleep-walked your way off the airship!”

“And you saved me,” she says, stepping closer and pulling his head down for a kiss. “My hero.”

It's as much a joke as it's true, but Rick can't return her grin. 

“Be you but in health and strength, then the nearness of your countenance sheds delight,” he whispers.

Her grin softens into a smile. “You don't need to learn poetry – even if it is Egyptian poetry – to woo me, Mr O'Connell, you do know you caught me a decade ago.”

“It _is_ an Egyptian poem?” He frowns.

“Yes, where...”

“I've been dreaming too,” he says, much too fast. “I think... I think I was there, too.”

“I know you were,” she says, her smile sad now. “Khamudi of the Medjai.”

She could have heard him talking with Ardeth. Ardeth could have told her about it later. But even as he thinks it, Rick knows that's not what happened.

“My Lady of Grace,” he says quietly, kissing her hand. 

Even that is more than Khamudi ever had. 

“What happened to them?” he asks, almost fearing the response.

“Maybe we'll find out,” she answers, smiling and pulling him onto the bed. “When we get around to sleeping.”

\- - -

_He dreams about being a captured soldier, presented to the king as a slave. He's kneeling naked in front of his throne, surrounded by other slaves, when a golden shadow in the corner of his eye makes him move his head and raise his eyes to gaze upon the most beautiful sight he has ever beheld._

_A golden lady, her dark eyes meeting his and he feels like he is back in the battle field, being run over by a war chariot, the ground disappearing under him, because his world is turned upside down. He will gladly be a slave if it means basking in the presence of that gaze._

_He looks too long, and a is rewarded with a lash from a whip. The pain is meaningless, the sight carved into his mind, but he does turn his face down, having seen too many others slain for a lesser crime during their voyage to the palace._

_But the lash does not discriminate, and his neighbour gets his share – incensed, the men are up as one, grabbing at weapons, attacking the guards, but Khamudi keeps his place._

_Until one of the men lungs for the Golden Lady, and then he is on his feet before his heart has beaten again, placing his body between her and the stolen sword. There is betrayal in the eye of his fellow soldier, but he has a new allegiance now, and the gods of this strange land must be giving him strength. He stops the blade with his bound hands, letting it set him free, grabbing the sword and running him through with little regret._

_He keeps his body between the revolt and her, but soon realises she is not a flower to be protected – she has her own weapons, and is moving to place herself between the king and the fighting, so he follows, guarding her back, and she allows it, turning fearlessly to face the other way._

_And then the king's elite guard is there and the end is slaughter. He meets the eye of the warrior closest to him, and receives a nod in reply. He is allowed to keep his stolen sword, to protect their ruler against his own men._

_All for a glance of the Golden Lady._

_Then the fight is over, and the bodies of the fallen litter the floor – all naked, all slaves, their revolt short-lived and unsuccessful. He stares at them, at the men who spoke his language, whose names he knew, and falls on his knees, letting the sword fall on the floor next to them._

_If he receives his death now, he will not reproach the gods._

_There are words around him, a deep voice he knows must belong to the guard next to him, then a sweet timbre that has to be his Golden Lady, and then, finally, a commanding one – the king – and he is forced to turn, to face him._

_He stays on his knees and looks up at the god on the throne, expecting the lighting to strike him down for his insolence._

_He does not speak the language, he does not understand the words, but the tone is a tone of a father, the words soft and benign, and as the king rests his hand on the arm of the Golden Lady, he understands._

_He traded his life for that of a royal princess, and in doing so keeps it._

_Then the warrior grasps his arm and pulls him up, pats him on the back, and bends to pick up the blade before presenting it to him. He smiles, and Khamudi smiles back. He knows an invitation when he sees one._

_And that is how Khamudi becomes a medjai._

_His new brother is called Heru-deshret, and he is part of the king's guard. Patiently like a father he teaches Khamudi their tongue, the strange sounds of their language that can fall like poetry and lash like curses._

_At night he copies poems on a slate with the young sons of the royal scribes, and during the day he trains with the medjai, learning their ways and teaching them his._

_Every now and then he catches a glimpse of the princess he now knows to be called Nefer-Tiri, but to the men she is Out-of-Reach. She is a fighter herself, a warrior priestess of Hathor, and no living man can touch her._

_Occasionally she meets his gaze, and he knows he isn't alone._

_He longs to worship her body like the goddess that owns it, wishes to sing her the sweetest love songs he has learnt, wants nothing as much as to be a simple farmer, working by day to bring food to her table, and lie next to her at night as her husband._

_He would live his life content in the sight of her, but then the murderers break the peace._

_All his worry, all his attention, everything in him wants to get to his sister, who raised the alarm, and in the end Heru-deshret sends him to her to bring the news. His brother has always known what's in his heart._

_They kneel on the balcony of her rooms for the rest of the night, and all he can do is watch the tears fall from her dark eyes. He is hers, his soul aching to comfort her, to give her more, but all they are allowed is this night, this silent vigil._

_When the new king has been crowned and Princess Nefertiri can leave the post of Regent she heads to Dendera, to the temple of Hathor, to serve the rest of her days as a priestess._

_Heru-deshret is heading into the desert to train his men to their new duty._

_He must know Khamudi will not follow him._

\- - -

_Nefertiri is dying. This is one fight too many, one foe too strong, and she regrets so much, not least the fact she is leaving her temple unprotected when she falls._

_Then, just as she fears she has reached the final moment a body blocks the blow, dark flesh taking the strike meant for her, and she meets the eyes of her medjai in shock._

_Khamudi falls but with his last strength he reaches with his sword so that she can grab it, seek instant retribution for his death and it's like her wounds are forgotten: she fights with renewed energy, the Goddess of War herself moving her limbs, guiding her blade, and soon the men lie slain around them._

_She rushes to Khamudi who yet breathes, but slow and quiet, his ka straining to leave. She whispers his name, cradles his beloved head on her lap, futilely seeks to stem the blood flow from his wounds._

_He opens his eyes, smiles, and she doesn't know where he finds the strength to lift his hand but he does, and gently touches her cheek. His blood mingles with her tears, and she whispers the words of love she never got to tell him before._

_“Be you but in health and strength, then the nearness of your countenance sheds delight.” His voice breaks down, the rhythms never as fluid as that of those born speaking the language of the black land, but she knows the words to the rest of the song, and how appropriate that he would die in the temple of the Mistress of Music with the words of a song on his lips._

_“Mistress of the West,” she begs, “don't take him, not yet.”_

_She has sent many men to the Goddess she serves, but never one so dear, so vital, and she isn't ready to relinquish his soul just yet. Maybe if she holds a little tighter, a little longer, they will not be parted, even by the journey to the afterlife._

_“I will wait for you in the field of reeds,” he whispers, as in tune with her thoughts as he has always been, and she kisses the last breath off his lips._

  
_Thou beautiful one! My heart's desire is_   
_To procure for you your food as your husband,_   
_My arm resting upon your arm._

_You have changed me by your love._  
 _Thus say I in my heart,_  
 _In my soul, at my prayers:_  
 _"I lack my commander tonight,_  
 _I am as one dwelling in a tomb."_

_Be you but in health and strength,_  
 _Then the nearness of your countenance_  
 _Sheds delight, by reason of your well-being,_  
 _Over a heart, which seeks you with longing._

Wikisource   



End file.
